Snakehead
by shelter
Summary: Short Story. Meet Ermita: the Organization's main man in the West, professional recruiter of potential warriors & the exclusive 'parent' to God-eye Galatea. But which of these roles does he consider his first priority? Implied Ermita x Galatea. Updated!
1. The Price of Flesh

**Snakehead**

**Length**: Short Story (3-4 Chapters, 11,000 words)

**Synopsis**: Meet Ermita: the Organization's man in the West, professional recruiter with a keen eye, and the exclusive 'parent' to the Organization's Eye, Galatea. But which of these roles does he put first? (Implied Ermita x Galatea.)

_**Disclaimer:**__This goes without saying: I don't own Claymore or any of its characters._

* * *

_Snakehead_ (MANDARIN: **蛇头**; she tou) – Chinese term for leaders who organise and deal in human trafficking and smuggling… (Longman's Dictionary of Contemporary English)

* * *

**1. The Price of Flesh**

_When I joined the organization, they considered me promising enough to set a full panel of three dark-faced, hoarse-voiced shadows to speak to me. All they did was pose me two questions._

_What was your previous occupation? _

Self employed. _I thought for a moment and then added for dramatic effect_: self employed, slave-trader. 

_How did you determine the quality of your personnel? _

_That question seemed extremely straightforward:_ if they can survive me, and their trip to their destination, and if they don't rebel against their masters – I'd say they would be worth purchase and risk involved. 

_The dark-haired man in the centre spoke quietly to his two comrades. The outline of his face flashed back in my direction._

_Excellent. The job's yours. Let's consider your wages._

* * *

"Tangerines! Tangerines from Yenica! Two beras apiece!"

The sixth day of every month was market day in the town of Aluccur. A town resembling a neatly disarrayed mass of homes and business, perched along the western ridge, only on market day would traffic into the town treble with swarms of people converging from the drab hilly regions of the south-west. 

"You won't get trout or salmon any fresher than this anywhere else!" 

The crowd elbowed their way along: a viscous, squirming heap of humanity thronging in morbid fascination of the sellers' cries. They flowed through the gates, without even a second glance from the guardsmen keeping a distracted watch. 

_Too easy. Too many people. _

"Come come! Prime cut of beef from the Aluccur fields! Very tender! Must buy! Must buy!" 

Eyeing the dangling slice of meat via the butcher's hyperbolic persuasion, he caught the man's line of vision. Even with a cleaver in hand and the tributaries of reckless blood streaming from his apron, the butcher recoiled, dazed and alarmed. _So much for the prime cut of beef, _he mused. He irritably saw the butcher's disapproving gaze fixated on his back, like the downward thrust of a dagger. _Ah well, this is market day_, he thought. No one was supposed care about strangers and odd-looking characters. 

He jostled into the thick of the market-marveling crowd. _Where are the two of you? _He loathed the multitudes closing in all around him. _But an order is an order, _he reminded himselfrepeating his directives like a prayer: _recruit offspring and 'assist' to clean the town. _'Assist' was, metaphorically, a treacherous word to him. Still, he tried to channel his thoughts into extracting relevance from background static.

But the people around him stood like walls, funneling the sellers' yells like an echo in a deep forest. 

"Grapes off my vineyard! Best in this valley!" 

"A hundred beras for these lovely steel knives!" 

"Who will buy this lovely, sweet _girl_? Look at the smoothness and elegance of…" 

He turned, all his prior concentration numbed. Sight and hearing collaborated to find the source of the sellers' coaxing voice. Through the dense crowd he pinpointed the man and his merchants – his loose thoughts racing in anticipation – but to his dismay all he saw the man brandishing _gel,_animal-produce_gel_ – 

The man was caressing it repeatedly as supposed proof of its usefulness._Since when did girl and gel sound so familiar, _he chided himself. 

But he could almost imagine that same merchant advertising a young maiden, probably no more than fifteen, on that same pedestal with those same words:

_Who will buy this lovely, sweet girl? Look at the smoothness and elegance of her skin. She will make a good maidservant – day or night, in bed or out of it! _

_No_– he shrugged the thought from his head. _Stupid westerners and their accents._ He paused. _That's quite a lame excuse. _

His legs brought him away from the luscious calls of the man selling animal gel, back to the section where bloody chunks of meat and lumps of farm produce where being purchased and bartered. _Don't get distracted by food. _A man deliberately knocked into him, a woman eyed him with mistrust and a child, upon meeting his eye, scrambled back in tears to his mother.

The crowd swirled around him, a slow motion blur of apathetic faces. _I must focus on seeking them out, _he insisted. As he let the faces in the crowd transcend into hazy, incoherent colours, he dug from the chatter and noise the voices which stood out, succinct and clean from the filthy market.

"What a shame," went one. 

"Indeed. Poor girl, mother at the age of thirteen and homeless," said another.

"Poor wrench." 

_Almost,_he thought over and above the shouts and yells of market-day enthusiasm. Another person rammed into his shoulder. But he kept his patience._Almost –_

"The Father says she will stay at the cathedral until her child is weaned –"

_At last! _

"HEY YOU! What do you think you're doing?" 

Ermita's eyes flushed sunlight into his senses, recovering from his meditation – only to find a stout, blustering lady waving a blade at him. Instinct for defence was stalled only – just – by observation as the woman lowered her blade to de-scale the pallid, miserable piece of meat she gripped with her left hand.

"So," she addressed him again fiercely, "Anything from this spread, instead of blocking my customers, stranger?"

He eyed the heap of gasping, mouth-open carcasses of fish piled in the back of an open carriage, noting the stench ­ (and flies) for good measure.

"Certainly, my lady. I'd like a nice piece of trout," he put on his most pleasant voice. He suppressed a smile as the fishmonger's eyes widened in abstract surprise, "and smoke it well for me."

The surroundings stabilized: the fishmonger preparing trout over a slow fire, the crowd, the market, Aluccur. _My job here's half done. Now to the dirty work. _He took a hasty, half-hearted glance through the milling mass of humanity. _If you don't show yourself soon – _a distant prompting unnerved him – _you'll have a sword through your head, wretch –_

"There you go, stranger," the woman stuffed the slab of smoked trout into his hands. Ermita absent-mindedly mimicked the motion with an unconscious quantity of beras. "Stranger, stranger…" 

He did not bother paying attention: "Take the remainder for your trouble," he quipped. He turned and took off – straight into the chest of a strapping, long-armed youth. 

"What do you want?" the youth snarled.

Ermita grinned. "Peace be to you too, my yoma friend." 

The youth stiffened unnaturally. He spat: a silver spoon of spittle fell on Ermita's chest, narrowly missing his chin. "You – you cradle-snatcher. Heaven curse you."

"If you aren't cursed already," Ermita retorted casually. "You better leave. I have a warrior following my shadow who would gladly dye her sword with the likes of you." 

This time he clenched his face in satisfaction as the youth retreated back several steps. Was that fear mixed with anger on that human façade? Still, the youth spat again as he disappeared into the cluttered crush of the market crowd. 

_Run while you can. _He waited and took a bite out of his smoked trout, the previous sensation of ill feeling having evaporated. A chunk of meat he rolled playfully with his tongue. At that very moment, a profound but comfortably familiar presence intruded into his thoughts.

_Galatea. _He swallowed the seasoned meat, and a burst of basil, rosemary and parsley erupted in his throat like a warm wine on a winter night._ About time._

* * *

In between the time he sensed and actually saw her, he had the opportunity to purchase a bottle of fine southwestern wine (rumoured to be the sweetest in the continent). He tucked the bottle away into his jacket, donned his cloak and put on his face covering. People were openly staring at him now. _No matter, nobody will remember the face underneath this veil anyway. _

Dressed like an apparition of the afterlife, Ermita tailed the bright, persistent feeling to where he knew his Claymore – _no, his 'child'_ – would be waiting. _Time to watch the show._

He picked his way across outstretched arms and blocking bodies till he neared an intersection. He was just on time.

"Claymore!"

The crowd underwent a drastic shift of momentum. It ceased movement, lurched in all directions, then stood absolutely still, like an animal confronted on all sides by baying foes. Peeking through sweaty bodies with withering stench of exertion, he saw men and women from afar back off – 

– To reveal a tall, svelte lady clad in with imposing, gleaming armour. _Finally, she arrives. _Strapped to her back and sheathed, she bore an unmistakable, massive sword – the trademark of monster-killers. Flowing like liquid, her long tresses of silver hair seemed convinced by the slight wind to billow gently behind her. They framed a genuinely elfin, beaming face – a portrait of serenity.

But she parted the throngs as if she was the personification of pestilence. No one dared to let themselves be touched by her shadow.

"Silver-eyed witch!" someone hissed.

"Why is she here? On market day?" 

"Don't look at her, children. You'll go blind!" 

The man beside Ermita was uttering prayers with a quick whisper. A child covered her eyes with her hands as she passed by.

_At least she didn't run away crying, _he reasoned. 

"Peace be to you, citizens of Aluccur. And thank you for your appreciation," she said aloud. Her voice sounded like a gentle wind passing through the meadows on a cool day. "I'm here strictly for business only. I apologise for the inconvenience. Please leave me to my work." 

The silver-eyed warrior was now observing the crowd with her sweeping, sparkling eyes. His thoughts drifted to the youth he met earlier. _I sincerely hope you ran away._

Intrigued, or fearful of running, the judgmental crowd watched the silver-eyed warrior sift through the crowd, her eyes invisibly filtering out human from monster – if there was any monster to begin with. They stood, as if enchanted, when she took several steps forward, and approached a gang of other youths, some armed with bludgeons. 

Ermita knew what she would say even before the words exited her mouth: "Come peacefully," she said. Her voice was audible enough to be heard by everyone watching. _The monster-killer who gives second chances, eh? That should be your un-official nickname._

"She's insane. Those kids have been in the town since they were born!" 

As soon as she had issued the threat, a mob of youthful henchmen fanned out, surrounding her, and at the same time shielding their apparent leader – the same youth Ermita had talked to earlier – in a bludgeon-armed semi-circle of thuggish bodies.

"I gave you an opportunity. But you still choose to hide behind humans," she addressed him directly. "That's not very smart." 

The youth smirked. "Watch your tongue, witch. Don't tempt me to take more lives – after I'm done with you." 

The warrior sighed, then slowly unsheathed her sword, earning laughs from all around, especially the gang of youthful henchmen, who enclosed her tightly in an almost-perfect circle of bodies. _I hope you know what you're doing, Galatea, _he mused. _Remember your place among humans. _But, anticipating excitement, he decided to take another bite of smoked trout as he waited for the next move.

"Your blade won't work in such a small area, witch," someone crowed.

_Clang_. Ermita blinked – _I didn't see that. _Again:_ Clang_. He let out a gasp of awe as he realised her moves – _clang – _and when he next took a closer look, a mass of sprawled bodies lay in perfectly mathematical arc around the warrior, with only their increasingly agitated leader standing.

It took several moments, and it was all over. But the warrior confirmed his theory when, leveling her blade point-blank at the youth's face, she said aloud: "It's a mistake even humans make, but the blade is not the only part of a sword that's useful." The youth cringed, backing away. "Just because I can't kill them, doesn't mean that will stop me from killing you." 

The others lay scattered around, bludgeons forgotten. _Nice move, _he thought. _A quick, blunt blow to the head with hilt of her sword. _He took another bite of trout, crunching down a bone. _I must recommend this move to other warriors._

"Wait!" the youth protested. "Don't I get another chance?" 

In an instant his features appeared to turn slightly angular and feral. But the warrior moved equally swift, and as the multitude on onlookers blinked, the youth-turned-yoma was clutching his side, slouched against the wall. The warrior corrected her posture – from striking position – and shook her sword, discoloured with the faintest taint of purple.

"No, you don't," she declared softly.

The youth-turned-yoma's slouching frame splintered into eight pieces of flesh.

The crowd recoiled in fear. The youth-turned-yoma's henchmen took the chance to flee. And Ermita, crushed another bite of meat between his teeth. _Time to stop hiding_, and he moved into the clearing.

"A clean kill!" he commended, separating himself from the crowd, applauding. _As always: clean and with style._

The warrior's eyes narrowed. He took offence at the less than enthusiastic greeting – _you're never glad to see me after you've finished your work, aren't you?_As he approached her, the crowd decided it was not worth watching what would happen next, and dispersed hastily, whispering overtly.

"Ermita," she addressed him. "Why did you choose to enter the town before me? You could've alerted the yoma that I was coming." 

_Well – you gave him a chance to escape too. _"I have other business to see to in this town, Galatea, which you'll know soon enough." 

Her eyes shot to the smoked trout and the bulge in his coat. "Like feasting on meat and wine?"

He returned a look of slight annoyance at her. "Think of it as reconnaissance," he added. 

"Pardon me –"

An elderly man stood, just outside of range from their conversation, hesitant to interrupt. He croaked when she turned her gaze on him: "As – as magistrate, I'm duty-bound to pay you this fee –" 

Galatea did not have the patience to let him finish; she lazily intoned the usual phrase which accompanied every successful kill: 

"A man in black will come later to collect payment for – 

"Nonsense," Ermita cut her off. She eyed him questioningly, as he received the packets of beras and gold pieces too thankfully. "We apologise for the timing, but still we are honoured to do business with the people of Aluccur, O magistrate." He scooped the entire handful of coins and gold pieces into his cloak. _That's at least fifty thousand beras worth of currency. _"Heaven forbid there we pass by this road again. Peace be with you." 

The magistrate backed away one step, but still responded as polite as he could, even with a hasty nod to Galatea. "And peace be upon you too." A turn, and he vanished into the multitude of buyers and sellers giving the black-cloaked man and the armour-clad warrior a wide berth.

"What are your orders, now?" Galatea looked to Ermita, strained. She dutifully avoided the subject of him receiving payment. "Because there are no yoma for many, many miles." 

_There's still business to fulfill_. He finished the last remains of his meal. This final portion tasted stale. 

"I – pardon – we have business at the cathedral," and he started off without even waiting for her response.

But she matched his pace, even through as he weaved in and out of startled people. Still, he slowed for her. Her face showed gave no indication of exertion; her eyes still brightly – defiantly – glistened, always careful of his many intentions. She brushed aside a lock of hair from her face – _you and your principles about beauty – I can never catch you when you're not beautiful – _wait, he checked his thoughts – when she looked him in the eye, he forced himself not to return the glare –

"Tell me, since when did you decide to collect the fees for successful kills, Ermita?" she asked. _The tone in her voice, _he noted, catching her mouth curl in the slightest of smiles. _She's trying to bait me. _"And have I done something so wrong that my contact does not even bother to explain what we're doing now?" 

He chose to answer the question indirectly: "Trust me. I'll explain soon enough, and you'll understand."

"Trust," Galatea made that word a demeaning monologue of doubt. "As in trust you the same way you always tell me to? Trust you like a parent?" 

He huffed irritably. _You push me too far, Galatea. _

"Do you have a choice?" 

Galatea chose to stay silent. 

"It's not your mission to ask so many questions," he chided her. _I don't like putting you in place. _His strong voice eased. "We're going to the cathedral, as I've said. Organization's orders: Recruitment." 

The expression Ermita saw on her face was compound: grateful, but rebellious as the same time. _Like a child who's been scolded by her mother for something she did right. _Yet, Galatea said softly: "Thanks. That's all I wanted to know." 

They completed the rest of their walk in silence. He purposely led them through small, clustered alleyways devoid of people. People who did encounter them by shunned them as if they were diseased and dying; residents bolted their doors and sealed their windows as they passed by their houses. _The usual welcome, _Ermita noted, brushing aside these gestures simply. Galatea, striding on his left, held a serenely blank face. Nearby, mothers chastised their children for looking at her.

They broke from the shadow of the houses into an open square, backed by a cathedral – _no, it's just a mission. _A hushed silence gripped those present in the square. But he led Galatea through them and to the doors of the mission, where a man in priestly garb confronted them.

"I know what you're looking for," he blocked their path, trying to look courageous but failing miserably. "This orphanage belongs to the people of Aluccur, not for dwellers of the underworld like your kind." 

Galatea's fists curled. _It's not like her to flare up over such cheap insults – still, this is not the place for fighting – _automatically, he stepped in between them, fingering deep into his cloak. 

"Peace be to you, good Father. Please understand that we seek nothing of you," he spoke, specifically loading his words with compliment and courtesy. He fished from his cloak a leather pouch bursting with beras. "All we seek is an audience with an orphan you took in yesterday. 

"And let this little entrance fee be evidence of our goodwill."

"Ermita…" he heard her, on the verge of protest, but he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

The priest's eyes drew into slits; his hands slipped to the sacred emblem on his mantle. "Just who do you think I am," he demanded. 

Ermita let out an obvious sigh. His other hand pulled to the surface a tightly-bounded packet of gold sticks, pieces and shells. _That's almost everything from earlier. _He smiled. "You're a good man, father. You're a hardworking priest in urgent need of better resources and a larger mission." 

The shift in mood was quiet – and instantaneous; but the priest did not immediately accept the gold. Instead, he backed away, the look on his face still hostile and fearful. Then, with his hands behind him, he opened the doors to the mission just enough for him to slip inside. _Good acting: give onlookers the impression he's running inside to hide from us. _The doors, left ajar, were a symbol of acknowledgment. 

"Why fight when you can buy away disagreements?" Ermita said to Galatea, his voice nicely-pitched with pride, as he led the way in. "It's much cleaner." 

He knew she was forcing herself to be quiet. _Because she knows I'm right, _he told himself.

Once within the building, his senses numbed him, dislocated by the stuffy interior and the sharp stale scent of human waste. Several tapers, trailing wax like clumps of loose teeth, kept enough light for him to make out the shapes of beds pressed against the furthest wall and the dark forms of bodies on them. The priest was nowhere in sight; Ermita left the packet by a pew. _But looks like he does need a new building after all. _

A cry echoed nearby. _That's it. _He nodded to her, and stepped forward in the direction of the sound. With an outstretched arm, he seized a low-burning taper from its cleft in the wall, thrusting out before him, waving away the dank gloom. _There you are, my child. _He halted: below the frail glow of light lay a young girl, dirty and shirking away from the light, nursing an infant.

"Good day, my dear. You know why we are here," he forced himself to put on his sweetest, most proper voice. "Pass us your child. Receive the agreed compensation." 

The girl twisted away from the light. In this filthy, abandoned corner, he thought she reminded him of the youth-turned-yoma: helpless, with no options, _much like a Claymore recruit getting her first beating – _the thought rose to him savagely – _a little angry, a little sad, but mostly uncertain _– unconsciously or under instinct's influence, he found himself turning back to Galatea – 

_You're letting her get away, _he reminded himself.

He pursued the girl, creeping away to camouflage herself in some dingy sanctuary. But in just two strides, Ermita was face-to-face to her again; her feral, hysterical face, washed with saliva or sweat or both, appeared angular in the poor light, and she raised a clawed hand to repel the light from the taper.

"What if –" she began in a hoarse, deep voice, billowing from beneath the flows of unkempt, wild hair. "What if I've changed my mind?"

He sighed – again. He gestured the patient form eyeing the scene with uncertainty: "Galatea, your sword please." 

"Ermita, I don't think –"

"No need to think. Just draw your sword," his voice raised itself from request to command.

He saw that did as she was told – however reluctantly – and unsheathed it with one move, fast enough for the air between them to constrict then burst out with a splicing sound. By then, he had already uncovered from his cloak another package of numerous gold pieces.

"My dear, there are two alternatives for you right now," he said, ensuring a solemn tint to his voice. "That sword or these ten thousand beras you decided on earlier." He paused to let the choice sink into the girl's head – _if she still is capable of rational thought. _"Just pass over your child." 

The girl stirred, exposing an infant wrapped neatly in swaddling clothes in the crook of her arm. She meekly held her out; Ermita seized the child and, examining closely, chucked the packet of gold pieces into the girl's hands. _Enough to get you out of this wasteland._

He looked down at the baby in his arms. _They told me that she was a few months' old but she's barely older than a week. _He could not help but scowl. _The organization and their questionable tactics_. As he turned and headed for the exit, something clenched his chest, a dully familiar but tersely physical sensation. _What? Guilt? _

But he buried it away. He walked out from the mission's doors when Galatea called out to him. He stopped to see her.

"Did I tell you how much you repulse me?" she said, before completely passing him by.

He cradled the baby, allowing himself a small smile. _I know. _He took in her retreating figure. _But I believe it's worth it. _A full moment went by before another thought crashed into him. 

_What in the world am I thinking?_

* * *

**NOTES:**

_Many thanks to __**Tempest35 (Arakan7)**__ for his relentless beta-reading, editing & comments on this story. The writer is only responsible for the idea; the proofreader presents it out nicely._

_And – YES – finally, the freak idea which I happened to think on during my youth camp in 2007 is at last in words and on I have been a quiet visitor to Claymore fanfiction circles for too long. _

_I decided to use Ermita for this story because there aren't many stories on the men in black from the Organization. The next few chapters will try to explore more in-depth the 'parent-daughter' relationship Ermita has with Galatea. Also, this story is not an AU. I won't mention the time frame, as time & place play an important element in this story. Anyway, I think it's already quite clear. _

_As much as I'm sensitive to prevent any displays of out-of-character-ness, do please comment what you think of both characters (reviews are always welcome), because feedback will help me determine how I'll conclude – and avoid me making the same tragic mistake as I did in my last fic._

_Last edited: 18.03.2008_


	2. The Weight of Memory

**2. **

**The Weight of Memory**

From his translucent eyes, he cast the scene into vision from the back of his head:

A burning fire, ruefully nestled in the hollow of two enormous hunched trees – casting stale glow over the child, resting with his reach – and Galatea keeping watch.

Townspeople in the South-west traditionally marked nightfall by the deliberate tolling of cathedral bells until the sun's fleeting rays could no longer be seen from the highest watchtower of their towns. They kept gates triple-latched and assigned sentries to patrol their walls, to guard against the north wind, the legendary fear of darkness and the threat of yoma.

In the fire-coaxed hollow, deaf to the chime of church bells floating through the woods, he chucked another piece of wood into the slackening fire, raising a shroud of embers. He shifted to check the baby; comfortably snuggled in blankets, he had laid her by the edge of the fire. She twitched, giggled, and then yawned at his touch. He smiled, but cautioned himself – _still, Galatea won't see my face under this covering anyway – _and returned to his place behind the infant, blocking the wind.

In his favourite cross-legged position, Ermita sat with the baby before him. Galatea, lounging with her sword as a crude backrest, loitered at the outskirts of the fire.

He uncorked his bottle, obtained earlier at Aluccur, and comforted himself with a good dose of Southern wine. _They were right: it is sweet. _A stinging, fruity liquid slipped down his throat, warming him. More out of obligation than goodwill, he held out the bottle to his silver-eyed companion soundlessly.

He saw her raise a suspicious eyebrow at his intentions.

"Use a little wine for thy stomach's sake," he quoted obliquely. He was not too sure where he had learnt that proverb from."Trust me. It's good."

She took the bottle from him, demurely brushing the open tip of the bottleneck over her lips. But the grimace on her face told him she had genuinely made the effort. _Hah, I should congratulate myself_, he thought playfully, _the day I convinced Galatea to take to the bottle. _She passed the bottle back to him grimly, and he set it down in the space between them like signpost dividing a territory.

"Is it too much to ask what will happen to that child?" Galatea questioned him. Once she appeared to have sufficiently cleared her mouth of the aftertaste, her eyes swept past the fire to the precious bundle of – humanity.

_Are your fates any different? _He sighed sadly. _I don't want to lie in your face but – _here in the hollow her gaze compelled him to be honest. "She was promised to the Organization even before she was born. And probably they'll raise her as with any other orphan," he paused. "A Claymore trainee no comma needed in this case then a warrior, just like the others. And if she has potential, the future Eye, just like you."

The glow of the fire flickered into blackness temporarily, smothered by the wind. Ermita lost sight of her face. He hastily lobbed another slab of wood into the fire as the fire threatened to die on them. _I've never been good at making fires anyway. _When enough light had returned to suit him, he turned and found himself confronted with Galatea's apathetic, absorbed gaze.

"A piteous fate, don't you think?" her silver-sharp eyes flashed at him. There was a barely disguised resentment in them.

"We all do what we can to survive," he replied, knowingly sounding vague. _Your opinions, Galatea – they disturb me. _"Think about it like this: if it weren't for the Organization, this child wouldn't survive another month. We give her the opportunity to make a decent living, and to repay us for the kindness we've shown it."

_An honest statement, _but he let the words drift over into her thoughts: they contained an oblique reference to her.

The infant wailed – _at the right time too ­_– allowing him to concentrate on it without waiting for her response. He reassured the baby, cajoling it in his arms; it stretched out a miniscule finger and jabbed at his face covering. _She's not afraid of me – _his chest flooded with a complex, _reluctant_ feeling as the baby moved against his chest – _despite what my overseers will do to her. _He cooed, resting the baby smugly in the cradle of his interlocked arms – _sleep now, sleep –_

"Were you singing her to sleep?" her voice was unwholesomely close, unseemly curious with disbelief.

She was crouched beside him, staring at the child in his arms. _I didn't even hear her move. _His reflexes, instructed by instinct, were goading him to distance himself from her – and the monstrous, inhuman sensation she dispelled. But he kept his head: _she's – Galatea, not a monster – yet. _

_Calm yourself_.

Shadows, forced by firelight onto the ground, appeared suggestive – _like a couple bent over their only child._

"Hold her if you wish," he offered.

Galatea recoiled, as if the child in his arms was a mass of undiluted yoki; for once, he could not discern the emotion within her eyes. But he set the wriggling infant in her arms anyway which, despite the discomfort on her face, were held frozen halfway in the act of receiving and pulling away.

"I –" her stutter betrayed everything. _Is that a blush? _But she gamely lowered her head to the baby, whose fragile right hand had seized a lock of her hair. She struggled. "Ermita, I – "

He relieved her of her burden; he rocked the baby quietly, and set the infant down before him again, hoping she would get drowsy watching the playful dancing of the fire.

For an awkward moment, they stood outlined by the fire. _Did I trigger something? _He observed her as she, in turn, eyed him. He was not going to let the opportunity slip for him to unravel more.

But she intercepted him: "I know what you're thinking," she said, in two short breaths, returning to her place at the periphery of the firelight. Her eyes again fled to the infant. "Something happened some time ago –"

"Tell me," he asked – _perhaps a bit too sharply. _Before he could control it, however, his tone turned into more of a taunt than a request. "Then again, it's not that everyone doesn't know already."

She seem to pale slightly. Or was it just the illusion of the firelight?

Her voice came just short of the stark coldness of the north wind. "Are you implying something, Ermita?"

He could not resist it. Sitting in the semi-circle of fire-scourged shadow, the thought of provocation spilled over into his words. _Here I go. _"I imply nothing, my dear," his slow tone making the last two words sound as if he was talking to a child. "Save that which everybody already knows. And who doesn't know your _legendary _story, Galatea?"

If she was enraged, he knew she would not hesitate to keep it hidden. _She won't give me the pleasure of her anger._

"Every Claymore has her own dramatic tragedy to tell! Ah, but the legendary story of the Eye of the organization!" he exclaimed in mock triumph. "Joined the ranks of bloodthirsty silver-eyed warriors to avenge her own child's death. A child, if I'm not mistaken, not unlike this little one we have in our presence here –"

All he heard was the sound of the wind being parted – _what_ – and the next thing he knew, Ermita was drenched in wine.And Galatea's sword struck, embedded, in where his bottle once was. When he recovered, a strange, urgent air was shrouding him. _Yoki, _he thought, alarmed. _Her yoki._

"Ermita," she had turned away, her face completely obscured by the penumbra of light. _Was she trying to contain her anger? Or deliberately intimidating me?_ "Watch your tongue."

_You watch your actions. _"I don't have to watch my tongue, Galatea, when I'm in charge of you." He did not bother to conceal the impatient authority in his voice. "_You_ remember your place."

He glowered at her, while from the darkness a faint silver hue eyed him. He straightened uncomfortably. _If she's angry, it'll be harder to talk sense into her, especially with what we're going to do tomorrow. _He grew uncomfortable, but knowing full well he had started this.

He shuffled. She stirred.

Then he lost his patience. _Why are we acting like children? _

"Fine. I'm sorry I provoked –"

"What's your sob story then?" she countered. As her face moved back out into the firelight, he saw she had lost all trace of that hideous visage earlier. "Everyone has a background, eh? What sort of tragedy befell you to inspire such a despicable character as yours?"

_What? _He watched her tantrum – a rare occurrence, but her words singed him, as if she had backed him into the fire.

"Did a yoma kill your parents? Or maybe it was your brother? Or your sister? Or what? What?" her voice came just louder than whisper, but was coming down hard.

"What was it then, Ermita? Did you cry over them then? Did that stone-still face of yours cry that once? Saved your from your miserable existence, didn't it? Or do you still miss them? Your accursed family?"

"Or what? What, Ermita?"

He noticed she was panting, her visible scowl made even more angular by the poor light. _You've really done it now, haven't you? _He scrunched his fists, stilled himself. _Calm down, don't flare up. _Ermita looked down, letting silence fill the place of his potential scathing or malevolent reply. _Right: I can face it. _When he felt he had calmed down, he returned her stare. _Better you know, so you don't provoke me again._

He let the words slip out of her mouth like a plunge into an abyss: "The yoma took," he paused, "my children."

Galatea's clenched face immediately returned back into the light, relieved of its harshness.

"Yes. It –" again, he felt the overwhelming effort to get the words out of his mouth. "It took part of my face too."

The silence seemed to take on a life of its own now, pushing against him, engulfing him from her fire-lit expression of deep thought. He waited, unable to react, his spoken truth having removed all his fighting spirit and directed sarcasm. He – they, both continued to wait out each other's thoughts, each undone by each other – by the truth.

_And the truth shall liberate you. _

A low moan broke their silent truce. And Ermita mechanically excused himself to check the baby. _Hush hush, don't need to get involved in all this fighting. _He stroked the infant's forehead with the stub of his right thumb – _the yoma took that too. _As he rested the squirming bundle beside the fire again, he could see Galatea still staring at him – a tense, questioning look. _Like as if she's wondering if she should continue or apologise._

He leaned in at the infant. _How about a story, then? _

"Ermita," her voice swung out at him, rousing the fire. "I apologize…I know that was unnecessary –"

"You have nothing to be guilty about, Galatea," he overruled her. _Let me correct this mess. _He lowered his face to the infant, knowing she could not reply anyway. "Have you heard the story of the king born in a manger? It's a popular one among the country folk in the far south."

"No, I haven't," Galatea's easing voice cooled his anxieties. She, too, seemed to have calmed down. "Please, tell us."

The first words from his mouth burst into images of an ancient land. And, speaking from memory, he let the words put them all to sleep, while the glow of the preoccupied fire continued to dance on their tired faces.

* * *

The infant was still asleep when he lifted her into his arms. Stepping over the extinct embers of last night's fire, he swept out of the hollow, wary of the inevitable alarm an imminent dawn. Galatea, her face conveniently dimmed in shadow, slept untouched, slouched on her sword.

Ermita walked through the trees, paused, then walked some more. He flung his gaze through a spinney, seeking for his target. _That miserable worm. _He decided not to move anymore._ Always late._

"What makes you believe so?"

_Witch's blood! _He cursed. But he disallowed Rubel the pleasure of catching him off guard by remaining still. He waited for a moment, then moved to face him.

"Take her," Ermita offered. The infant passed into Rubel's arms, and immediately began to stir, kick and moan.

"And these are the funds you requested," Ermita caught the bundle with one hand. Its weight in beras nearly strained his fingers.

Rubel continued to comment: "A faultless delivery. The organization will be notified of your efficiency."

"Will they?" he feigned, not bothering to prolong the petty talk. _Will they really? _He gave a farewell gesture to the other man and left.

But he hardly took five steps when Rubel called after him, in a voice as loud as it was brash: "Rushing to return to her, my friend?" Then his voice descended into a smooth, slithering tone of indictment. "How is dear Galatea, anyway?"

_Don't respond – don't answer his cheap taunts – don't resp_ – but before he could control himself, the words dropped from his tongue. His only consolation was that he continued walking and kept his voice level.

"You see to your own business, Rubel, and I'll manage mine."

* * *

"Rubel took her, right?"

He could not concentrate. All around the forest was falling away into barren scrub – and the sun was a bit too glaring. The previous swath of canopy cover had degenerated into insignificant vegetation on a rocky tongue of ridge. This geographical transformation, coupled with the unnecessary light from the sun, plus the steep incline, made him delay his reply.

"Ermita?"

"There's a river beyond this rise," he said, dreamily. He motioned bluntly up a slope, in the direction of an outcrop with dead vines like ladders twirled around it. "Or at least I think there is."

_Get to the further bank, and meet my contact there. _He numbly hoisted himself up the rise – but the ground spilled out under his weight – _curses – _his foot gave way – and he fell back, the air rushing past him for a moment until – until he stopped –

A pressing, reassuring grip clawed into his shoulder: Galatea's outstretched arm. _She – she – _he knew he should feel grateful, but –

"It was Rubel," he blurted. He steadied himself and mounted the sharp face of rock with her help.

Galatea cleared the obstacle effortlessly.

_Curse this earth. _Even from within his veil, he could feel his face hot with exertion or, or – _or what? _

"I thought I sensed that jackal," she said casually, overtaking him and moving on. "And I should scream at you for leaving a baby with him."

He scampered after her, sweat and – _the river, the contact, the purchase –_ more sweat, rinsing the exposed part of his face. He spoke with an expertly relaxed abstraction:

"My guess is you've probably heard what the other warriors think of him."

"They believe he was responsible for that incident in with those girls in the academy. That _sick_ fool," Galatea's tone moved from conversational to disdain in a syllable. "He seems to take a depraved interest in –"

"I know," he said, interrupting her. "I don't like him either."

They traversed the rise, and true to his instinct, a river sparkled visibly, a meandering silver worm amongst the naked sand and pale brown earth. He led them towards it, strode through its ankle-deep channel and halted at the far bank.

Galatea eyed the empty landscape. "And what are we supposed to expect?"

"The wonderful traveling market," he made no effort to hide the sarcasm in his voice. She swept a lock of hair from her face. "You'll be able to sense them soon."

He tried not to think of her touch – the ghost of it – _like a wound_, like a burn. And he tried not look to her now. The soon-to-be-noonday sun was blazing down so rigidly that she seemed to be cast in sunshine, her armour aglow.

"There're at least ten of them. No – more," she said, staring off to the distance.

Ermita aligned himself in the direction Galatea had indicated. Nothing. He waited patiently beside her. _A good impression counts. _Galatea made a motion to draw her sword, but Ermita chided her.

"No weapons," he warned. "Not unless I say so."

A man appeared on the crest of the rise, his form outlined in the sun. He waved, and Ermita signaled back.

"Hoi!" his voice, relayed by the wind, betrayed his proximity.

_Late as usual, the scoundrels. _He spied the descending figure of the man, and then a solid black mass of activity began to amble down the rise, scattered men following it on all sides. He squinted to get a better vision; he needed to take precautions, no matter who he was meeting. _Two horse-drawn carriages, at least ten men, two on horseback – _

One rode far ahead and was almost at the river. His coat of crude chain mail danced in the sun, clinking out a steady rhythm of metal hitting metal.

"Ermita, they are armed," Galatea stated. She shifted. She watched her – _are you anxious? Or merely getting in position? _"They're armed like bandits."

"I know," he replied. "Because that's what they are."

"He's got a witch with him!" the man on horseback called out. "Be on your guard!"

He saw her scowl at the insensitive accusation; she looked away, and spat bitterly.

"Stay back later," he advised her. He wanted to reach out to bolster her – _but – _he had the Organization's matters ­– _concentrate, concentrate – _"Let me handle this."

It took a tortuous amount of wasted time for the company to cross the river. _Laughable bunch of thieves. _Still, he checked himself – _business is business. _He curtly stepped up towards the only man in the company wearing a full set of armour; in doing so, he penetrated two lines of armed men with their swords, sickles and sharpened bludgeons drawn.

"Hoi!" he greeted. _No need for peace with these rogues. _"Adnen!"

"Ermita," the man dismounted the carriage, the armour on the upper half of his body shook at the movement. "How fares the Organization's righteous judge of life?"

The men all laughed. _Rubel's insults were worse, _he encouraged himself. But bearing in mind he was unarmed, he managed a small chuckle.

"I will fare better once we get down to trade, Adnen," he said, pointing to the carriages, draped with discoloured, decomposing animal hide. "The Organization wishes only the best from you."

"Adnen! The witch!" someone balked.

Ermita's breathing accelerated; he almost spun around to check on Galatea. But he calmed when Adnen ordered: "Don't touch her! We're here for business only! Nothing else!"

_He still has some moral authority, I see. _"It's heartening you still command enough authority to keep fellow rabble in check," he said, even before he could control himself.

And Adnen gave a sneer which suggested more than his contempt of Ermita's opinions. "Of course I do, Ermita. Don't forget such comments come from one who crouches behind the skirt of a woman." He threw open the tarp of skin. "Or more accurately_, a beast."_

Huddled in cages under the suffocating blanket of raw leather, were a young girls, in rags, with mud-coloured faces. _Is this the trash that we're paying cheap bandits for? _Ermita recoiled at the stench; he turned to Adnen.

"Aren't you going to peddle your wares?" he asked slyly.

Adnen shrugged, then went to command the nearest of his men. "Help me sell the vermin you caught yesterday! What? No! Now!"

_A stunning lack of discipline, _Ermita thought, as one of Adnen's men, armed with overtly prominent arms and a bludgeon sauntered to the cart. _And more like yoma than human._

He tore asunder the drapes of animal hide like a curtain, reached in and fished out a kicking, struggling girl. He watched as the miserable creature bit her tormentor – only to receive a brutal blow to the head. He set her before Ermita.

"This one. Good fighter, you see?" he stated. "Still young. Good to make Claymore. Very obedient –"

_Stay still. _Ermita took the girl's chin in his right hand, examining her features – the twitching, blank eyes – _like an animal before its butcher – _the twig-thin wrists and shattered lips too damaged to even bleed. _Her eyes are glazed – _she was so withered – _too withered – _and when he examined her feet, he was conscious of her left leg bent at an awkward angle –

He sighed: he looked the childin the eye – _do I rescue you from this hell and throw you into purgatory? _

"This one won't last another week," he said, discarding the child passively. "What else do you have?"

_Is life so cheap? _As Adnen and his assistant dragged young girls in all stages of malnourishment, sickness and injury from their cages, he prevented himself from answering his own question with principal duty: _the – Organization – needs – recruits. _He glanced at the wretched captives; he knew few would survive beyond a week of the Organization's regimen.

"Come on, Ermita. Stop being so fussy," Adnen said, his voice as slippery as a leech. "We caught these rats for good gold."

"Gold is payable on quality, my friend, not quantity," he responded. As he kneeled to observe the youngest girl's filth-clothed frame, he took her, and brought her before Galatea, thrusting the child into her charge. "Take care of her," he said.

"Wait – what do you – ?"

"Just restrain her if she tries to get away," Ermita shot back. He ignored her discomfort as the child twisted in her grasp, and went back to choose from Adnen's selection – _parade of flesh was more appropriate_.

But a comment by one of Adnen's men stopped him with displeasure: "Haw haw! That full lass can't even handle a child! What a waste of a body eh?"

Ermita grimly took his next words, carefully sculpted to Adnen. "I normally don't say this, Adnen," he swept his glance at the dozen or so bandits. "But I would like your men to hold their tongues."

The men around him balked. Adnen grinned so broadly he looked like his face would tear. "Ease your worries, Ermita. My men are just appreciating the wild, mysterious beauty of your witch here." He approached Galatea, and with his outstretched hand, attempted to stroke her face – "and what a beauty she clearly is."

She snaked away from his grasp. But another of Adnen's men whistled; and another, Ermita saw, closed in from behind her.

And again, before Ermita could limit his words, the threat –_I just need to give the consent – _declared itself:

"Adnen, if you lay a finger on her again, you will lose the ability to touch using those limbs – permanently."

The crowd of men fell quiet. He noted Galatea's doubtful look. But Adnen was still smiling, although Ermita could see the immense falseness of it.

"Ermita, Ermita, Ermita," he repeatedly, with faux patience, "you forget who I am. And who I'm with. And you forget that she is but one Claymore, who cannot harm us, the noble humans your valiant Organization has sworn to heaven to defend."

_I will wipe the hyperbole from his words, _Ermita swore to himself.

"I have never – ever – laid my eyes on the sure beauty underneath a Claymore's restrictive, glamorous armour before," Adnen continued, and his men began to stir with approval. The suggestion was not lost on Ermita. "As I have neither seen your face under your veil."

_Curses – _the overt threat had turned very personal.

"You did know, didn't you, that as a member of the Organization," Ermita began, seeking potential escape, "that I can override any existing rule and give the permission for a warrior to attack humans, in self defence?"

_That should have enough effect. _

"Defend yourself, Galatea."

One of Adnen's men screeched like an animal. There was a communal unsheathing of weapons. One reached forward for Ermita. Galatea's blade knocked him aside. A horse shied. And a girl's scream told Ermita something did not go as planned.

"ENOUGH!" it was Adnen's voice now. "Lower your swords! Lower your swords!"

Ermita collected himself. _I hardly exerted myself. _The results were like he expected: a bandit doubled-over what appeared to be two remaining figures and a thumb – three others sprawled on the ground clutching their faces – and – _what – _Galatea hovering over the limp body of the girl. The body's face seemed oddly out of place.

"What was she doing to harm you?" Galatea fiercely demanded of the retreating men.

"Come on, we're not going to win against her! Let's leave!" Adnen ordered. The men hastily obeyed. At the last moment, however, Adnen turned to him, his voice hissing in rage. "You've cost me more than you can buy, Ermita."

He was prepared for the reaction, and tossed Adnen his pouch of beras. "You know the terms of our deal, Adnen." _And you know the consequences of breaking it. _

"You servant of the devil," Adnen swung his sword too close to his face for comfort.

"Dictate to me something I don't already know," Ermita replied. But Adnen had ordered the carriage to move, and his wounded to be tended to. The rag-tag pack of thieves made their exit, heading back where they came from.

Ermita looked back to Galatea. He tried not to look at the child, victim of their petty brawl, with the blow across its face. "We have to leave," he told her.

Galatea rose from the flaccid body. "This was pointless, Ermita," she said. The tone in her voice discomfited him. _Same tone – as last night._

He forced himself to not to edify her, and instead kept his command: "Galatea, don't let a human, living or dead, compromise your professionalism."

_That did it. _She disengaged her stare from the corpse, and followed, her face scrunched up with what he saw as a deliberating flux of anger, disappointment, dismay, sadness and a thousand other emotions.

But now it was he, who turned and watched the disused pile of flesh fade into with distance and the burning of midday sunshine.

* * *

**NOTES:**

_Credit to **Tempest35 (Arakan7)** for his strict proofreading and help in getting this chapter out once again. The delay in updating this chapter, however, was my fault: I have been preoccupied with drafting stories for school. Now that school is finally over with, I can concentrate on finishing this fic._

_Schedule for completion: 1 final chapter, plus an epilogue, should be posted by 1__st__ week of June, God willing._

_It's not been easy developing the relationship between Galatea & Ermita without going OOC. After such a long break in writing this fic, only now when I return to it again do I wonder how did I end up writing about these 2 in the first place. But Galatea is really an interesting character to write about. And Ermita's back-story leaves me much room for creative license. _

_Appreciate the reviews so far. Many of your comments have helped the way the final chapter will be drafted. Hoping not to disappoint._

_Last Edited: 04.05.2008_


	3. The Burden of Loyalty

**3. The Burden of Loyalty**

"It was an unforeseen, unexpected engagement. I did what I could. But the transaction was compromised."

Even in the pure, heavy darkness of this shadowed glade in the forest, he could trace the standing frame of the hooded man – one of the Organization's stereotypical, faceless men – and his ragged breathing. _This man is not a Rubel. _He knew he had to be careful of his words. The reason for this man's abrupt appearance was ultimately, visibly telling.

_I'm being brought to account for the debacle with Adnen, _Ermita thought, haltingly. Still, he kept his posture, not succumbing to intimidation.

"The Organization is severely short on manpower, Ermita," the man repeated for almost the tenth time. "Villain or not, Adnen is a loyal supplier and some of his contributions have grown to be good warriors. Your estrangement with him comes at a very importune time."

_Enough with the bombastic words, _he found himself almost saying. But this time he held his tongue. _I have to. I've done enough damage. _

"I say again, in my defence, that violence was used first against me," he rolled the half-lie in his tongue. "If it weren't for Galatea, I would not be standing her before you."

The man appeared to shrug aside his excuses, breathing in deeply, drawing a thick trail of warm air from the smear of shadow which obscured him completely from Ermita.

"I came here tonight expecting to retrieve at least two future trainees," he spoke again, his voice stronger and authoritative now. "But instead I have to pass down to you the Organization's censure for your error in omission –"

Ermita lashed out at the man: "I have fulfilled my mission without question for all these years! I have never let the Organization down! And you bloody well know it!"

_Damnable lack of self-control, _he chided himself, silencing his words in time.

"Your tongue – is getting bolder." The coldness of the reprimand struck him like a kick in the face.

Ermita could only stare back blankly.

"Hear this, Ermita," the man uttered, tonelessly. "Tomorrow you will head southeast, past the Forests of Durnia, and out to the great valleys of the south there you will meet with the one who controls those lands –"

"No, no – you have no right –" he protested.

"– And, by whatever means necessary, bargain for the life of a number of our warriors held captive unconditionally after a hunt gone awry. The Organization expects _immediate_ compliance and the _favourable_ rescue of our comrades, upon your reporting to Staff headquarters, at daybreak in two days' time."

_I – have – been – sent – to –death. _"Surely! Surely – you jest!" he retorted. "Surely this is not what the Organization expects of a loyal servant!"

"I'm sorry, Ermita. These are the exact words from the office of the executive. Given your amicable relationships with most of our contacts, they must've seen you as the best person for this retrieval."

_And what about –? _"Then what is to become of the Eye?"

"The office of the executive has given you permission to take her along," the man's voice seemed to lapse into scathing accusation. "She might the very person for this mission, Ermita."

He found himself upset over this. _This is almost close to suicide – or worse – _"Do you realise what you're asking me to do?" he demanded, stepping towards the shadowy man. "You might not just lose me tomorrow. You might –"

"Do not let your heart be troubled, Ermita. Rest assured we will mourn your lost more than hers."

_Despicable swine. _"You –"

"For the greater good, Ermita. Remember your mission: for the greater good."

A sound of crushed leaves and the pull of a cloak indicated the man's withdrawal. And Ermita was left alone in the glade, overwhelmed by the insidious shadow cast by the fragments of clouded light.

* * *

Dawn came and went. And, still, he found himself observing her.

Whether it was her training as the Eye or her own responsible insecurity, she frequently obliged herself in the habit of surveying the landscape for yoki whenever they crossed over into unfamiliar territory. Her eyes shut, her modest face sullenly squinting at nothing in particular, her right hand leaning over her shoulder, closed over the hilt of her sheathed sword –

_Heavens, what have I gotten us into? _And Ermita shuffled forward, descending the plateau which overlooked a swath of murderously dark woodland.

"You won't sense anything here, trust me," he said, his voice wavering. _Keep it steady, don't give it away, _he checked himself. "Don't bother."

Galatea's eyes blossomed back to life. She searched the unnerving expanse of forest cover, and then followed after him. _She's been quiet. _He wanted badly to break his self-imposed silence on their mission. _She would never agree to it if I did. _But nothing elapsed between them; and he could only imagine the incident with Adnen weighing heavily on her mind.

_She's been too quiet. _And, after years of straightforward predictions, Ermita wished he could invade and take captive her thoughts.

They made good time. Save for a break at noon where he shared with her the last of his stored victuals (an apple and preserved meat), they trekked southwards relentlessly. He led them, hoping his sullen disposition would filter away into the bright, bird-infested forest – while she followed, obedient. _Too quietly obedient, _he noted. She did not speak a word; the only sign of life from her was a smile she had given him when they had stopped for their refreshments.

By the late afternoon the Forests of Durnia gave in to patches of rocky outcrops and hills. They were getting close. More than twice he had to dissuade her from scaling the sporadic rises and plateaus – in case she realised what they were up against.

_She still can't sense anything. _She kept frowning, but he knew she would not be able to trace the yoki. _It's too well hidden, _he deduced. But yoki or no yoki, he could tell they were nearing their destination – he didn't need to be a yoki manipulator to notice the absolute stillness of the forest, the sharp air of foreshadowing permeating all around them and, most of all, the passionate crimson glow brandished through the forest by the setting sun in the west.

They trudged till a huddled hollow of trees coincided with yet another rise, this one littered with angular fragments of rock. _A battle took place here. _Ermita peered ahead; but the dense crowd of forest obstructed any vision. Something was beckoning him from ahead – _this has to be it – _he knew they had reached their rendezvous point – _now for the difficult part: _

_Who's going to walk in first? _

He did not bother to consult Galatea, and already started forward: "This way. Follow –"

She seized his shoulder, almost making him lose his balance. Her touch, her bare hands, ate consciously into his shoulder, feeling both tight and warm and soft all at the same time. She swung forward to look him the eye and mouthed, "Are you insane?"

_What? _He was confused – _wait – why – _he put it together – _wait!_

"You knew?" he said, in complete disbelief. _Then why didn't you stop me? _"Galatea, you knew?"

"I know what's behind those trees," she retorted, the frown overtaking her features. "It's cloaking itself pretty well, but I can sense enough to know going in there is a death wish."

_It's too late – we've probably given ourselves away – _

But Ermita fought the urge to relent: "We've no choice. It's an order." He strode out of her entangling grip. And moved into the trees. "It's something we need to do."

_Witch's Blood! God have mercy on my soul if I ever get out this alive._

"Ermita?" her audible sigh bounced off the suffocating trees. "Wait!" And almost immediately he heard her effort through the trees as she followed him.

Facing snags, branches and undergrowth, Ermita lost himself in the shade and cover of the trees for several moments. _They say peace comes when you're dead – but – _light blew at him from ahead. He parted a huge fern, and stepped into the open. It was as if that short passage through the hollow stepping into another world. He had crossed over from the forest into some subverted fantasy:

The first thing was the smell. _Like a dead man's dump. _A layer of decomposing flesh, and then another acrid stench, the kind that came with sun-dried Yoma blood mixed with forest green. A hundred other uncertain, undetermined smells ran below these two, taking away the air of fresh moss and leaf-collected moisture the forest radiated. It hit him like a wave, and he took it; it made his eyes water.

And then there was the – _setting. _He had no other phrase for it. Where the ferns and trees of the hollow ended, a luxuriant carpet of grass spread out in all directions. The grass blinked a bright green even in the late afternoon light. But, in an almost mathematical straight line from where he stood, to a seat of granite rock ahead, the grass seemed dyed crimson – like a sinister red carpet – with what we knew for certain was blood.

But just whose blood, he could not tell.

He continued, agape, silenced by the detail of the lair. Then he saw the trophies. Iron shoulder blades, sets of a Claymore's full body armour, and many other pieces – lay assembled like a collectible army against the trees at the far end. Heads of wild cats, wolves and bears framed the hollow. And before the elevation of rock where the carpet of blood ended, was a fence of no less than ten warriors' swords.

And on the dais of rock, sat a smiling, long-haired young girl. He broke into a big smile as Ermita's face registered the sight of what he knew was not a fellow human. She twirled a long rope of blonde hair between her fingers – _some fallen warrior's ponytail _– brandishing it like a whip. And around her neck she wore a necklace of tongues – some still red and bloody, others already black bits pierced with string.

He averted his gaze to the ground and made sure she saw his sign of respect.

"Luciela."

No answer. Then: "Ermita!" the voice was cheerful, almost chatty. "I was expecting you. I even cleaned up the place to prepare for your arrival!"

When he felt it was safe to look up, he slowly, carefully, arrayed himself before the Abyssal One of the South, the slayer of Claymores, Luciela.

She nodded her head theatrically to one side. "I see you have brought company."

"Ermita – this is –"

He tensed when he heard Galatea's voice. Against all his intuition, he jerked himself back to the warrior, whose had already drawn her sword.

_Curses! _"Drop your sword, Galatea!" he yelled. "I said: drop your sword!"

_If I cannot convince Luciela of my goodwill, we are as good as dead._

"What –?" she stammered.

"Drop it!" he ordered again. "The Abyssal One is not our enemy today."

Galatea's face had turned from uncertainty to loathing; she held out her blade with one hand, pointed directly at the creature several feet behind Ermita. He saw that she was trembling too. A few apprehensive moments passed, with Galatea still keeping her weapon drawn. Only when he stepped up in a motion to disarm her that she saved him the trouble: the sword fell to the ground.

Galatea's hands were woefully empty.

"Excellent, excellent Ermita!" went Luciela. She applauded. "Such command. Such control over your legions! If only all those in the Organization were like you."

"We share similar goals," he replied, not taking his eyes off Galatea, almost fearing she would re-arm herself once he turned away. "Which is why I am here today."

She feigned offense, but Ermita could not be too sure. Her tone, though, confirmed it: "Always the businessman, aren't you?" He shook the lulling effect the beautiful face speaking those words away. _That coy tone will not hesitate to kill. _He reminded himself of the vengeful, helpless warrior who he needed to keep safe.

Luciela spoke again, much more suggestively: "Why don't you bring your lovely girl up here. And we can talk about the old times, Ermita?"

He forced himself to grin. "Work is work, my Lady," he repeated his famous mantra. "And the Organization demands as much of me as ever."

"You're all about work, aren't you?" she said, leaning on her knees. He felt her eyes tear from him and at Galatea. She made an absolute show of addressing the powerless warrior:

"You shouldn't try that, my dear," Luciela's tone was as smoother than silk, sharper than a dagger. "You might be a single-digit, but trying to manipulate my yoki is a cheap trick. And it won't work either, because –"

_All the curses of heaven!_

He heard Galatea curse, and then the sound of thrashing armour. He turned – in time – and Galatea had wrestled her right arm (which had on its own seized her claymore) as if she was fighting herself – she clutched at it – then he watched as her body slammed itself to the ground – her right arm still waving incessantly, wasted by the sheer power of Luciela's –

"STOP! We've a truce!" he called out to the awakened being, who had hardly moved from her position.

"Truce?" she looked to him, a façade of innocence shattered by her crossed arms.

"I'm here to call terms, Luciela," the boldness of his own voice and the direct address startled him. "She-is-not-your-business!"

He saw Galatea struggle to her feet – a bloody nose's contents splashed across her left cheek – only to be shoved to her knees again – _my death or hers. _He forced himself to face Luciela, his fists clenched so hard he could feel his nails sunk into his hands.

He watched the Abyssal One's placid, deadpan look extend across her face, before breaking back into her ridiculously fake smile.

"Fine."

A muffled _thump_ behind him, and he knew they were saved – for now.

"But one more attempt and I swear by all the host of heaven, I will use those nice long legs of hers as a footstool."

Ermita chose to ignore that malice-filled image as, behind him, her heard Galatea panting and coughing; he hoped she finally understood their predicament. _Back to what I came here to do. _Daring himself, he made three steps to the foot of Luciela's blood-drenched throne, his hands swinging freely beside him to ensure she saw he bore no ill will.

He began: "I'm here about the patrol of four you encountered several days ago, my Lady –"

"Ermita! No need for formalities among us. We've known each other for so long now! You're practically my man within the Organization!"

"Then you would know what I'm here for, Luciela, without me having to explain the details."

"Of course! Of course! The same thing every time I see you," she glanced beyond him. For some uncertain purpose she addressed Galatea. "Every time he decides to pay a visit it means something has gone afoul nearby, and he has to rescue some of _your_ comrades."

_She's damming me in front of her, _he summarized. But a tangible, fierce fear of failure kept him in place. _If I don't hold my tongue now – _

"We-ll, I do await with expectation the terms you're planning to propose to me this time, Ermita."

"The Organization is prepared to overlook your rampages and grant –" He stopped. _There's no sign of life anywhere. _Yoki-sensitive or not, he could not sense the presence of anyone but Luciela, and the physical nearness of Galatea behind. But beyond that: nothing. He forced himself not to draw on a conclusion: _for my mission to be successful, there must be warriors to rescue in the first place, and they need to be alive – _

"You seem disturbed, Ermita."

He countered her sing-song observation with one of his own: "Where are the prisoners?"

"The prisoners?"

"The prisoners, Luciela."

"Ah yes – them!" her voice reached a pitch and her face brightened. "Well, I had to deal them the rightful penalty for trespassing, didn't I?"

_She's toying with us. _He considered bolting. _No, but we would not make it further than the trees. _

"The rightful penalty for trespassing on _my_ lair, ignoring _my _calls to turn back, and losing to _me,_" she said, flicking out the ponytailed-whip, lashing the air inches away from Ermita's face. "Well, the penalty is death, of course."

He caught himself. He felt his throat tighten. Still, he could not show weakness.

But Luciela appeared to repent from her merciless tone: "But, what good are dead Claymores, eh Ermita?" she sneered. The look on her face, made angular by her already sharp, feminine features, turned malicious, derisively pointed. "Dead Claymores make poor currency."

Her cursory glance directed him to the canopy of the trees above. He did not dare to take his gaze off her; he could not be certain she would not cut him down standing there. But as Ermita lifted his eyes into the trees, as he picked out from the branches thick, contorted shapes; as he traced their puppet-dangling limbs from branch to branch, he knew – _but are they still alive?_

Galatea swore. The corner of Luciela's mouth twitched into a smile.

"Let them down," he said, his voice rising like a command. "Now."

"As you wish."

A pair of hideous tentacles swept out from her flowing dress, striking a point above Ermita. And at once three dark shapes fell – Galatea caught two – and the third fell into Ermita's arms. _Witch's blood – _he pushed the bundle of flesh and torn fabric away from him: its face, short of an eye, had a bloody scream frozen into its features, already cold with decomposition. Maggots were peeling skin from its black lips – where what he knew was its tongue, ended in a stub.

"Ermita, they're still alive –"

_Thank goodness – _he vainly tried to tear his eyes away from the corpse of the warrior, and rushed to Galatea. Both of the captives had been stripped off their armour, badly wounded and wrapped in barbed thistles, long vines streaming from the trees. He pulled the prickly vines off from them, and its thorns bit into his hands in the process. _Alive – _he turned the warrior to face him – he tapped her face, and her eyes burst open, her breathing deep and haggard – _you're alive – _

He turned to face Luciela. "What did you do to the fourth warrior?"

"I fed her to the worms," Luciela's falsely sweet tone floated over to them.

Ignoring her, he attended the injured. _Wake up. _Ermita gently tapped on the forehead of one of the warriors, careful not to touch an angry yellow horizontal wound running septic across her face. The slightest twitching of eyelids – she trembled in his arms, her grip resting hard on his elbow – _I should have brought water. _He saw Galatea personally take the weight of her wounded warrior in a bid to get her to stand, adjusting herself against the rotted stump of arm sticking out from the warrior's right.

He dragged the corpse of the dead warrior to him, setting it down beside the other, still-unconscious one. _The work here is done. _But then –

_Only if I can persuade Luciela to let us go without a fight – _

He turned down Galatea's questioning stare; instead, he approached Luciela, carefully judging his steps.

"Luciela –" he addressed her.

"Be thankful, Ermita. I left two alive," she broke into a charming smile as she eyed him speculatively. "Any less, and I'm sure the Organization would never forgive you."

_Despicable wrench. Unholy strumpet. Abomination – _

"So what do I get in return for my double kindness, Ermita?"

He froze. _She will not let us go without – without – _He suppressed his panic: he needed all his composure to strike a deal with this monster.

"What else do you wish for?" he worded the sentence with enough incredulity and concession to keep it neutral. "The Organization has already given you its word it will disregard your movements within the entire south-east quarter. As long as you keep away from our supply towns, they will not respond with warriors –"

"Fie, Ermita. I know how the Organization works. No need for such professional language." Still Luciela continued to stare him down. "So for agreeing to this meeting, I get fresh human meat.

"But what about for not killing your two darling Claymores here? What will you offer me, Ermita?"

_No. _He should have seen through this. _I've cornered myself – I'm been forced into a bargain. _Luciela beset him with a smirk – and he backed off cautiously. _What does she want? What does she – _

When he looked behind he saw Galatea lay the body of her injured warrior of the ground, attempting to perform a yoki-healing maneuver on her. He tried not to make his oblique gaze too obvious; still, as she watched her slender, sword-scarred hands move over to the severed limbs – the frown on her face – the stripes of sweat trailing down her neck from her fight with Luciela's manipulative yoki-control – the _curve_ of her bicep as she steadied the warrior –

_No. No. No. No._

He could not look at Galatea again. He forced himself to stare straight into the grotesque face of triumph Luciela was displaying – her taut, decisively victorious frame – the utter contempt with which she was looking down at him – waiting for him to do himself in with a faulted exchange –

He sighed: an audible outburst of his dismay.

_Galatea, you have to understand this._

"Luciela," he said. "In exchange for your _trust_, we will leave this clearing with only one of the four."

_She already expected it – _but Luciela made no efforts to hide her delight:

"Excellent Ermita! I knew we were of the same mind –"

"_Are you insane, Ermita?_"

He did not bother to turn around. "Let me handle this, Galatea."

"I'm not going to let you trade away the lives of my fellow warriors –"

_I have no accursed choice! _He wanted to scream.

But instead, it came out soft and meek: "Let the Abyssal One have what she wants."

He knew his next few steps. He stepped back, taking broader strides this time, but still not daring to turn his back to Luciela. He strode past the corpse and the unconscious warrior; he bent low and saw that she was breathing slowly, surely, but not awake yet – _you will die an honourable death, without knowledge that you were sold by the Organization – _he got up and continued walking – _I am sorry – _

Galatea confronted him: "Ermita? If you are not going to fight for them, then I will."

"No. You will follow _my_ orders. And take this injured warrior out from this clearing _now_," he responded, his voice tense. "That is an _order_ from your handler, Galatea."

_Don't – _he almost relented when she turned her pitiful, vengeful stare on him. _Stand my ground – I've saved three for one. _Galatea trudged out into the cover of the trees, leaving only him and Luciela still trying to challenge each other to a staring duel.

"I take my leave, my Lady."

"The usual courtesies. What else can be expected from you?" she said. She has dismounted from her dais, and was now stooping low over the unconscious body of the warrior he had bartered for his escape.

"What do you want with her anyway?" he asked. _That was too bold. Careful – _

"Another tongue for my necklace," she chirped. And he knew she was mocking him when she dismissed him: "Nice doing business with you, Ermita."

As he moved through the trees, however, he breathed in the lush scent of the foliage, the heart of the forest, thinking only one thing: _I am alive – _

– _But I would be better off dead._

* * *

They moved through the forest, putting enough distance between them and Luciela's stretch of wood. They had reached a rise, far enough from any threat, when he heard her drop the warrior she was bearing to the ground.

When he inquired of her, he found himself staring point-blank into her blade.

"Give me one good reason," she demanded, her features were distorting. _Your anger – your hatred – bear it on me_. "Give me a good a reason, Ermita, why I should not cut you down now for treason."

She drove the blade near – at him – then past him – till he felt it prick the bridge of his nose under his hood –

"I had no choice," he said. _How can I prove to you that if I did not sacrifice her, Luciela would have wanted you?_ "It was that warrior or us."

Her eyes were aflame; he thought, imagined, he saw their yellow tinge take over.

"You practically sold her," there was exasperation in her voice. "You left her to die! Do you understand those words, Ermita? You-sold-a-life!"

_There was nothing I could do – there was nothing I could do_. He clenched his fists, and chose to stare past her trembling blade to look directly at the warrior whom he had mentored for almost five straight years.

"You know me, Galatea. I make bargains. I had to make a sacrifice –"

"Curse you." She spat at him. "You and your accursed sacrifices."

_You _– when he attempted to wipe her luminous orb of spittle from his face covering, he broke.

"You and your self-righteousness!"

He took her blade and swatted it aside – _don't you dare point that thing at me _– he covered the distance between them fast enough – but she was much faster – and when the blade came back in a natural arc for his neck, he seized it with his open palm –

"I did what I did for us to survive!" he could not stop himself or discern it, but he was screaming at her. "I did what I could for **us**! And are you grateful at all?"

_Every single thing I did and to protect you and you never took it seriously._

The force on her blade went slack, but he could feel the blood pooling in his palm already. But he did not bother himself with the gnash. Instead, he stepped nearer to her. And he jabbed one accusing finger into her chest.

"You – you tell me what would _you _have done?" _What would you have done if you had to choose between two lives?_

She returned the stare; again he imagined she saw her eyes take on their yellow signal of rage, weaken under his charges.

Her reply came well-versed, smooth. _But with a hint of admitted uncertainty_. Or so he thought:

"I would have killed that witch. I would have avenged every single one of my comrades."

They stayed, close to blows, but not making move, for some time. From under his covering, Ermita's wide, wrath-twitching eyes tilted themselves at her. And she, looking down at him, wind occasionally rousing her long tresses of hair, stood quietly, her claymore balanced in her right hand, streaked with blood where it had cut him. They were close – he could see the soft rise and fall of her chest, the deep silver of her eyes, the warm rush of each exhaled breath –

_What am I doing? _

He relented, squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. _All this – all this – is useless._

He reached out to her: "Galatea."

But she did not respond.

Again: "Galatea, I'm sorr–"

"Stay away from me."

She made those words into a masterpiece of disgust.

Without a further word, she shouldered the warrior they had managed to save from Luciela, and strode past him, slipping away into the invisible trail that led back to Staff, as if he was not there.

_I've done it now, haven't I?_ He numbly watched Galatea's shrinking form, her back straight as he expected, her tread a regular beat, taking her away from him, crossing away into a place out of his grasp.

The entire world darkening around him, Ermita paused to listen to the last noise of Galatea moving through the forest.

"I crossed the line, didn't I?" he wanted to say to her, but heard his own words answer him back in the forest.

* * *

_**Notes:**_

___Thanks to T35 (Arakan) who did the editing & proofreading for me. It took a long time, but I'm glad that the last chapter of Snakehead is finally up. The epilogue, which aims to tie this story in with the canon, will be up by the end of this week. Thanks for all your patience._

___Edited on 21-22 Sep 08.  
_


	4. Epilogue: Last Sight

**Epilogue: Last Sight**

He still expected a censure. And he certainly got one.

Standing before the chairpersons of the Office of the Executive, he stood apart from Galatea, who was commended for bringing back a fellow warrior from a combat zone alive. Instead, he was debriefed, accused of negligence, fouling up a critical meeting with Adnen and returning with only one out of four of the doomed hunting squad. They gave him time to defend himself, as they huddled and deliberated on an appropriate sentence.

He knew that Galatea, standing at the periphery of the proceedings, was watching him with pity. _How far have the favoured fallen. _He did not return her stare this time. _But you could've spoke up to defend me._

Once the consultations were over Rubel, part of the sentencing committee, broke the news to Ermita with a wide grin on his face. A Luciela-false kind of smile. His established contacts still too valuable to the Organization, he was to be consigned to be posted to head the Organization's Crisis Negotiation Branch, stationed in Staff itself. His mistakes and inability to act properly before warriors (and to set a good precedent for them) meant he was to be stripped off the honour of mentoring the 'Eye'. After all, Rubel added as a conclusion, rotating handlers would prevent "unduly favouritism and untoward behaviour among warriors and their handlers".

He accepted their critique and his demotion without comment. The meeting adjourned, he did not wish to speak to Galatea. _Not yet. _But he noted with some satisfaction when she went up to Rubel and spat with contempt at his shiny black glasses.

_Self-righteous, you are._

* * *

He would not see Galatea for many more months, but he knew the rumours of war circulating within Staff. Then came the Pieta incident. And, deciding that finally the time was right, he decided to confront her.

He found her outside Staff, away from the stuffiness of the Organization's walled fortress, her head in her hands.

"I've seen what the Organization's been doing in the dark," she told him. He noticed her eyes: they were, for the first time in all the years they had been living day to day together, red and swollen. When he pressed further, she gave in: "Alicia and Beth."

He asked her why she had been crying. Which she vehemently denied

"I've lost at least fifteen comrades in Pieta. And I'm human, am I not?" she said to him. He nodded. "Well my new handler thinks I'm invincible."

He observed her: in full battle regalia, recently having been censured not once – but twice – over some incident with a certain missing Number Forty-Seventh warrior and again over a refusal to support the Organization's assassin-warrior in tracking down Pieta deserters. Rubel had taunted him just the other day: if it were not for the manpower shortage, your precious Number Three would have already been garroted – twice.

He watched her, like he did in the old times, quietly. Like he was by a fire in a distant southwestern forest, his senses recording the way the shadows cast by the flames trickled down the relief of her face, the bridge of her nose, the crest of her elfin face –

He wondered aloud if those were the good times.

She nodded.

Then he told her, in a single damming breath, that if she wanted to disappear she'd have to erase all trace of her yoki and live as a human with a decent, well-respected occupation, like a healer, or a surrogate mother, or a nun.

"Ermita –"

And he added that if she wanted to go, she'd have to do it now. Before the changing of the sentries, before they reestablished contact with their assassin-warrior again. _She needed to leave now_, he insisted. As for him, no one would acknowledge the word of a disgraced mentor anyway.

He sat waiting for her to leave. He told her in conclusion that he hated goodbyes, being unaccustomed to them, not having the opportunity to bid goodbye to his own family when the yoma took them. So go now, he finished his advice, and don't come back. He knew she had experienced what leaving everything behind meant – too.

Her hands clasped as if in prayer, she cast one look at him, then at the imposing city of Staff looming behind. She probably wanted to ask why he did not desert too, he thought. But, again, he was wrong.

"I've one request, since I'll never see you or this place again." He noticed her hands were trembling, her face strangely distressed – in a pensive, thoughtful kind of way. "Will you let me see your real face, Ermita?"

Her appeal stunned him. He could not even remember when he had last shown his face to anyone else.

Grimly, he pulled off his cloak, then his hood. His hands slid underneath the complex folds of his face covering and pulled them loose with one tug. Facing her, without any veil or hood, felt like he was facing the sunshine: a gentle, soft warmth.

She did not flinch as he had expected her to. But as she approached him, bent lower, and anointed his bare forehead with her lips, she whispered to him: "I've have seen the face of an angel."

* * *

Later, much later, when he had almost forgotten what it was like to see Galatea's face framed against the sun, he would learn from the warriors sent to kill the former number three that his was the last face she beheld before she put her eyes out and sacrificed sight for a devout life of utter darkness.

___Righteous one. At last._

* * *

___**NOTES:**_

_____It's been 9 months. But it's finally been completed. _

_____All the hard work in editing & proofreading goes to Arakan7 (T35). His advice helped to guide & make this humble story what it is._

_____In the end, I guess I've grown to like Ermita as a character, even though the canon has changed hugely ever since the time I put my thoughts to this story. There's no indication as to whether Ermita is still alive in the canon, or what would his fate be should the current Ghost 7 achieve success in destroying the Organization - but hopefully he makes at least 1 reappearance :)_

_____I will break from writing short stories in Claymore for now. I'll be focusing on Proximity (one-shots) & Mononoke-Hime fics, the genre that first got me watching & writing fanfiction about anime. _

_____**Syukur Kepada Tuhan untuk tulisan saya**. All glory to God._

___01.10.2008._


End file.
